Cold As Ice

-
Her eyes were hazel with flecks of green and her hair a golden yellow with ringlets falling around her shoulders. Though her skin was fair, there was a warmth within that complimented her rosy lips. The lines on her face came from years of experience. She was wise in her ways; how deep to dig, how to mask the smell, what kind of tools worked best to make the job easy and quick. Her hands, though not as steady as when in her youth, were as sure as the day she started the secretive side job. $500 a body. She never felt guilt or shame, just the satisfaction of the final dirt-filled shovel finally sprinkled over the casket-less grave. She spat on the wet ground and brushed some dirt off her face. "This was a heavy one, i should ask for over-time."

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

-
you know, honestly, i don't know why i write. especially on a blog...it's one blog, one minuscule blog in an entire database of information called the interweb. i don't know why i bother. it just doubles the fact that i am one person in a world of other people and my thoughts are also just one minuscule cluster of opinions. no one cares. and if they care to read just one sentence, that sentence will dissolve from their memory the moment they leave my blog page. i am forgotten, as the people i meet on the streets every day. i see someone different every single day yet i cannot remember any one of their faces. and i am sure i will never meet them again.
Read more

4 years ago

-
If I was a writer, I wouldn't mind staying up all night in my library, hidden from society but enveloped in a mirage of literary worlds. The shelves will be overflowing, breaking at the seams with words begging to be read and brought to life by the imagination. I'll be inspired, fed by the imaginary sphere of writers whose legacies went before me. I'll write and study and write some more of distant lands beyond the see-able universe, of a man who travels the dimensions and falls in love with Woman of the Wind, of a girl who can sing her heart's desires into being but mistakenly casts away her ability and searches the world over for it, of a whale who dreams of becoming a little mouse only to find how unsatisfactory it is to have to scurry on little limbs. And when I'm done with those, I'll write of normal things like rain on a tin roof, watermelon in a garden, and airplanes in the sky. There will be endless things to conjure up, there will always be more to say
Read more

Mama Shaw's Pearls

-
Image
Mama Shaw loved her pearls. They laid encased within a jeweled glass box with every other diamond encrusted, gold-plated, silver hooped, brass made trinket. You could see through the box. When the light hits it at the right angle, it lit up like the sun lights up the day. Often times i would stand at the door when she got ready in the evening and watch her carefully take out one delicate item at a time and set it out on her vanity which was covered in oxblood suede. She said it was better for the jewelry. I believe her. One time about 3 and a half years ago, she was getting ready for a night out with her friends. Her dress was ivory, her hair done up in a chignon. The glass pearls were going to be perfect. Now they weren't your ordinary glass pearls. They were actual glass beads crafted to look like pale pearls. They were my favorite. Whenever Mama Shaw wore them they made her face glow and her cheeks always appeared much rosier than usual. I guess they were her favorite too.
Read more